


Dawn

by Sylvalum



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Making Up, Pining, Post-Episode 8, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvalum/pseuds/Sylvalum
Summary: But if it wasn’tdestinythat Jaskier and Yennefer found Geralt and Fiona this morning in the woods, then what? Storm’s brewing on every horizon and if they die tomorrow Jaskier doesn’t want to go out with thisone thingunfinished, unsaid, wasted. He has thousands of songs’ worth of words in him that are begging to be let out, and he wants to. By the gods does he want to.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 20
Kudos: 470





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't expect to like Jaskier this much, is tbh all I have to say.

Jaskier likes to think that he isn't a completely stupid man, just a little reckless perhaps, but well - he's not heartless _ either, _ and when he one bleak restless morning of lonely travel passed by the ruins in Sodden, only to see all those bodies just lying around, crows flocking above… 

Well, it's not like there was anyone else around to bury them.

So he puts down his lute and his pack and grabs the first shovel he finds, sets his jaw and ignores the stench of death, and starts digging. He’s not exactly cut out for the job, and Jaskier knows that the graves will inevitably be both shallow and shoddily made - and maybe attempting to make a mass grave would’ve been easier than making a bunch of individual ones, but he’s already started by making separate ones and really… Really, he can’t make any grave markers and he doesn’t recognise any of these people, but giving each of these departed souls their own grave. He can do that.

He’s a bard, you see; romance is in his bones, and so is also, usually, compassion.

He buries the remains of a few children and villagers, feeling rather put off by mankind; none of these are soldiers. All of them were too young to die yet. So he takes a break for a moment, looks at the forest and the road and his lute, but his head is empty of songs. Here is nothing but dead innocents.

Jaskier resumes his work after a while, finding more bodies inside of the ruins of the keep. People in richer clothes, women in long colourful dresses- mages? Their wounds do not look like they fell to neither swords nor arrows. He’s about to clumsily lower a sorceress clad in blue into the grave he just dug, when he hears footsteps from behind him, and his heart stutters as he whirls around-

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Yennefer so disheveled before.

Yennefer, dirt and blood streaked through her hair and over her face but with clean streaks running through the grime like she’s been crying, wearing a dress that’s matted with blood, ripped and frayed, looks down on him with a blank expression. It’s terrifying how apathetic she looks. Where’s the spirit, the hubris, the _ rage? _The expression clearly and boldly declaring her defiance of the gods?

“What are you doing?” she demands.

Jaskier, sitting on his knees in the dirt in front of a grave with a corpse in his arms, doesn’t say anything sarcastic. He can’t even summon up any ill feeling against Yennefer in this moment, as he murmurs, “Burying the dead.”

Yennefer closes her eyes.

“You could help,” Jaskier tries. “Bet a witch knows _ some _ sort of trick for speeding this up a bit.”

Yennefer doesn’t say anything, so eventually Jasker turns back to the grave and lowers the body, then starts to shovel the earth back in, rich soil and sandy dirt and tufts of dead grass. He tries to cover the dead sorceress carefully, to send her off into the eternal night gently, but he fumbles too much and works too fast. Impatience and fear have burnt away his flesh so now there’s only nerve endings left to hide his ragged bones. It’s… it’s been a long day. He’s been digging for most of it. 

Yennefer simply watches, standing behind Jaskier like a disapproving mother. Until suddenly she says in an oddly quiet voice, “Her name was Sabrina.”

And Jaskier stills. Haltingly, Yennefer steps forward to stand and look at the grave for a moment. 

And after that, she starts to help Jaskier dig the graves.

* * *

With Yennefer it takes Jaskier only about two days to bury all the people they find lying around the ruins of Sodden. When they're finally done, hundreds of messy graves dug into the field by the keep, the sun is just setting. The sky is a pale red, and after exchanging the shovel for his bag and lute, he finds Yennefer waiting for him by the road. "Um, okay?" Jaskier says.

"Where are you going?" Yennefer asks, crossing her arms. There’s dried blood on her chin, dark brown.

Jaskier says, "And why should I tell you?" No reply. Yennefer's disinterested stare says enough. "Fine, whatever. It’s not like there's a lot of places I could be going. So I'm heading north."

"I suppose your options are limited," Yennefer sighs. "Well, get going then."

When he does, reluctantly and after having given Yennefer a long look, the witch begins to follow him. "No," he says and stops. "Can't you portal yourself away? Why are you following me?"

"As you said," Yennefer says through gritted teeth. "Not a lot of places to be going."

They stare at each other, until Jaskier finally looks away, throws up his hands and stars trudging. There's _ some _ people he just can't out-stubborn. 

It takes about five minutes for Yennefer to get fed up with his pace and start marching ahead of him, so Jaskier has to follow her instead. Well. That's her problem, then. They walk through the woods until it's completely dark out and then Jaskier stops, puts down his pack and unrolls a bedroll. Yennefer says, "Really? Already?"

"Feel free to continue on your silent, mysterious journey," Jaskier tells her. "Leave me to my fate of dying alone in the woods, I'm sure you've got a war to meddle in or something."

Yennefer rolls her unsettling violet eyes, then disappears off into the woods. Well then. At least Jaskier won't see her again. He lies down and closes his eyes, making a pointed effort to fall asleep while at the same time he's really as tense as a drawn bowstring. When he hears footsteps again, he turns over only to see- Yennefer's back. With a bunch of branches in her arms.

"Really?" Jaskier asks.

Yennefer piles up the wooden splinters haphazardly, building a broken tower of wood. She then lits the stack with a wave of her hand, and spends a moment tending to the fire before she says dryly, "I thought that if you’re here then Geralt can’t be far behind."

"Hah," Jaskier says, only a tiny touch bitterly, if you ask him. "I haven't seen him in years. Shouldn't you know better where he is, than some humble bard would?"

Yennefer breathes out through her nose and looks at Jaskier, who tilts his chin up and refuses to cower. They stare at each for a moment in the light of the fire, Jaskier still on his bedroll and Yennefer with nothing. And Jaskier can’t guess what Yennefer’s feeling, but he is for one both angry and tired - and fuck, Yennefer looks like hell. Both of them would be utterly alone in this forest of the dead, this night, if it weren’t for the other’s presence. And _ oh, _how the mighty have fallen, Jaskier thinks resentfully, even as he edges to the side of his bedroll and says, “So. Do you want to share, oh witch?”

“No,” Yennefer says in a voice that has no doubt made at least one person die, but eventually she _ does _ accept his offer, getting down on the ground with him, and after that, well, everything just feels awkward.

Jaskier sighs, feeling weary in more ways than one. 

It’s always been true, that Jaskier loves the crowd and the attention and the eyes on him, that he eats it up like all the ladies drink him in, that he sings happy and unashamed and bold. But Jaskier eventually came to love a quiet dirt road too, and to make a camp in the woods with Geralt. Though that was, _ obviously, _ not because of the woods themselves. Forests are damp and unpleasant and insects are absolutely inescapable, as is the vague but ominous feeling that he’ll be attacked by monsters in but a moment-- but with Geralt he always felt, well... safe. To put it plainly.

There isn’t quite any way to put that thought into song, and either way, maybe Jaskier sometimes hoards feelings and flashes of memory to himself like a magpie. Who could blame him?

Tragically, life is no longer a vast and unexplored unknown to him; he’s traveled the continent, made mistakes, and written many great ballads. Yet Geralt… Jaskier still finds himself sitting and wondering if there was anything he could’ve done differently, like a _ fool, _ because if Geralt turned his back on Jaskier then Jaskier should damn well stop giving a shit about him, too. And Jaskier was not built for longing but it is, against all his wishes, something he’s become quite _ good _at.

The fire crackles. Jaskier has perhaps never felt more aware of his own body than now, lying stiffly next to Yennefer of Vengerberg in the woods next to Sodden Hill and hating it. But he hates this, this awkward silence of long years and bad memories even more. Thus he draws in a breath and says, unprompted, “I miss Geralt, too. I mean, I’ve known him for years. Longer than you have. And I miss him.”

“I’m angry with him,” Yennefer says. It’s easier to speak when Jaskier can’t see her face. Maybe Yennefer feels the same.

“Sure, so am I,” Jaskier says. “But then again, these are dangerous times! My life could come to a tragic and premature end at any time. So if I ever see him again…" the night is silent, with not even the sound of animals calling out in the distance. Jaskier keeps worrying at a strand of grass plucked from beside his bedroll, twisting it between his fingers. If he closes his eyes and dreams then he can almost, almost imagine that the heavy warmth at his back is Geralt and not Yennefer. "..._ if _I ever see him again…"

"You're in love with him?" Yennefer states, incredulously.

"How could I not? Stupid as it is," Jaskier says defensively. Because Jaskier flirts, he lounges across counters, he sleeps around. It's what he does; he knows what it looks like, he knows what kind of person he seems like. But he refuses to be ashamed of his heart.

(And neither should Geralt have been-)

There was once a pitch-black night, damp and cold with a wind bringing freezing water with it, and Jaskier was lying on his bedroll with a fever and insisting to Geralt that it was late, and that he was perfectly fine, really, considering all the circumstances. _ Let’s just sleep instead of riding off on some foolish quest for a village. _ And when Geralt eventually relented, without a word, he spread out his bedroll right next to Jaskier, threw his cloak over Jaskier and lied down close. As if shielding Jaskier from the night and the illness.

And deliriously, Jaskier had thought, that Geralt should have someone to do the same thing for him. Someone who'd sleep back to back with him on nights like these. Someone who’d hold his face in their hands and share breath with him, wouldn't ask about his scars, someone who’d treat him softly just because they could. And Jaskier wanted to _ be that person. _ Wanted to pull twigs from Geralt's hair and patch up his wounds and follow him to the ends of the continent.

Wanted Geralt to let him.

Jaskier had loved many people without getting to keep them, so what was one more? 

"I'm just not a fighter," Jaskier confesses, quietly. "I have no armour against the world. I'm not cold enough, not strong enough. I'll never be more than a bard.

"And that's fine! This world needs more songs in it. But then I think…"

Would Geralt have picked Jaskier, gone to the coast with him, if he only he had been more like Yennefer? He _ knows _ he shouldn't think like that and that neither Geralt nor Yennefer are worth his time - but goddammit, he can't help it. And… And really, Yennefer isn’t to blame here, if Jaskier really lets himself think about it. He just doesn’t want to.

(Because then he’ll have no one to blame but himself)

A man starts questioning his priorities as he grows older, and Jaskier - is wondering.

“I just think that maybe, that what_ if _…” Jaskier trails off.

"Don't, then," Yennefer tells him, harshly. "You've done just fine as a bard, haven't you? Forget about Geralt."

"I- yeah." Jaskier blinks furiously and stares into the night. "I... guess. I mean, I know I _ ought _ to, but…” There are words he could use here, of inner battles and mankind’s curious desire to always play with fire, stare down steep falls. Instead he says, “Have you ever felt like this? Like just _ one man’s _ opinion is all that matters? The judge and jury of your life?”

Yennefer sighs. “Yes.”

“And-” Jaskier begins.

_ “And,” _ Yennefer interrupts. “My advice, _ bard, _ is to stop caring about what he said. Move on. Write some new songs, or whatever it is you people do.”

Jaskier reluctantly tries to ponder this over, fiddling some more with the grass strand. Eventually it breaks. He sighs. “I suppose so. Good night, witch."

"Night, bard," Yennefer grumbles.

And sleep they thus attempt to.

* * *

Dawn arrives with birdsong and dew and Yennefer stalking around in the bushes, waking Jaskier, who aches all over. For a bit he only lies and watches how Yennefer critically sizes up plants before yanking them out - she is not the blood-spattered and grim statue of yesterday, nor the dazzling and sly witch he’s used to. She simply… exists. Jaskier abruptly feels nostalgic for the days when he used to travel with companions. 

He gets up, soon enough, and unpacks some food to which Yennefer adds her plants, and then they eat. Sitting next to each other on the ground, caring very little, and not saying a word. Jaskier gives his lute a longing look as he packs up, but alas, today is for traveling. He doesn’t think Yennefer would appreciate any music either, and since they only _ yesterday _ left the blood-soaked grounds of Sodden… Jasker does not feel like kicking at any anthills.

Destiny being the sadistic vixen she is, _ however, _ of course means that only about an hour or so after Jaskier and Yennefer started trudging, they run into some other poor schmuck's campsite. Jaskier wouldn’t have stopped, but well. There’s only a _ kid _ watching over the packs and the horse, alone, which doesn’t exactly bode well.

"Where are your parents, child?" Yennefer stops to crouch down and ask the kid, who stares at Yennefer with wide eyes. The kid’s cloak is expensive, though her hair and face are streaked with all kinds of dirt and grime. 

"I'm alright," the kid says quickly. "My father just went to gather some herbs. He'll be back in a moment."

Jaskier looks at Yennefer, who casually says, "Oh. What about your mother, then?"

"She's dead."

"Alright," Jaskier says. "I'm sure the young lady here really is fine and that there's nothing to worry about! Surely-"

"We could wait with you until your father returns," Yennefer suggests to the child, completely ignoring Jaskier, why thank you, who glares a little at Yennefer but alas can't really, honestly protest, because, well. The possibility is small, but if the child _ does _ need rescuing...

The child herself visibly hesitates before Yennefer. "I…" she says.

And then the bushes behind them creak, rustle, and then there’s a snapping twig, and Jaskier hastily turns around just in time to see- Geralt. Coming out of the greenery, herbs in one hand and sword in the other, as magnificently disheveled, murderous and golden-eyed as he was some years ago. He's unfairly handsome considering he is, as per usual, covered in dirt and looks like someone just dragged him through a bush, but what can Jaskier say? The sunlight falls through the leafy canopy just right as Geralt's eyes find Jaskier, and Jaskier's stupid moronic heart skips a beat.

Somewhat belatedly Jaskier realises that what this _ really _ means is that the child over there has to be her royal highness Princess Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra.

"Yennefer." Geralt stops promptly, one foot still in the bushes. "And - Jaskier."

"I see you claimed your Child Surprise after all," Yennefer says frostily, rising smoothly to her feet. 

"Cintra fell," Geralt says grimly, and Jaskier looks at the little princess, dirty and with scrapes on her face, and thinks, _ oh. _"I didn't… I’ve only just met her."

“You’re Yennefer?” Cirilla asks, wide-eyed and looking up at Yennefer.

“That I am,” Yennefer says. “And you, child?”

“I… Call me Fiona.” she says, and glances at Geralt. The witcher nods then comes forward, setting aside his sword and what herbs he’d gathered. And_ Fiona _ sticks close to him, even though she can’t take her eyes off of Yennefer. Neither can Geralt, for a second, but then he looks at Jaskier. And Jaskier, who has played up so many different variations of _ the reunion _ in his head, just about manages a wry smile and an awkward wave.

Geralt looks down, at that, and Jaskier tries not to read anything into it. Tries not to feel a single one of the emotions that one action invokes in him.

Fiona then looks at Geralt, once, before starting to approach Yennefer. She asks, “Are you a sorceress?”

Yennefer answers patiently, looking almost serene as she speaks to Fiona, but Jaskier stops paying attention after the first three seconds because now Geralt’s approaching _ him. _ He stops a few steps away from Jaskier, who shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still holding his lute and his bag. Maybe he should set them down. Maybe. He’s not sure he’s got the focus required for the task, though, because Geralt is _ closer _ to him than he’s been in _ years _ and he’s poking with the toe of his boot in the dirt like he’s _ nervous. _

And yes, yes, Jaskier has been angry with him. He remembers Yennefer’s advice.

But if it wasn’t _ destiny _ that Jaskier and Yennefer found Geralt and Fiona this morning in the woods, then what? Storm’s brewing on every horizon and if they die tomorrow Jaskier doesn’t want to go out with this _ one thing _ unfinished, unsaid, wasted. He has thousands of songs’ worth of words in him that are begging to be let out, and he wants to. By the _ gods _ does he _ want- _

Geralt clears his throat and says, roughly, “I… shouldn't have yelled at you. On the mountain.”

Jaskier opens his mouth and carefully, carefully says, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Geralt repeats, and looks at Jaskier. He has that rare, vulnerable and open expression that Jaskier has barely seen a handful of times, and Jaskier can distantly feel his own heart beat and beat. Geralt says, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier takes a moment just to remind himself of all the circumstances here, and such, and of all his oaths to himself about never speaking to Geralt again, before grinning and saying, “You’re forgiven! But only because I love you, and only _ if _ we can tag along with you, that is, don’t think I’m letting you desert me _ again, _ Geralt-”

Geralt shakes his head but Jaskier thinks that he’s smiling, that delightful twitch of his mouth he does so very briefly - and then Fiona comes up and tugs at his arm, and Geralt looks attentively down at her. “They’re staying?” Fiona asks. “Yennefer and the - the bard?”

“Yes we are!” Jaskier declares happily. “Or at least _ I _ am. And the name’s Jaskier.”

Geralt smiles faintly at Jaskier, and Fiona nods before then looking to Yennefer, who’s standing a bit to the side and watching them. “And what about you, Yennefer?” Fiona asks politely.

“Got nowhere else to go,” Yennefer says, and her shoulders twitch in a quick shrug. Dismissive. Too nonchalant. A bit like Geralt’s way of always doing something with his hands when he has to talk to someone. Then Yennefer smiles wryly and adds, “Might as well see where you’re heading, little Fiona.”

Fiona’s face lights up with a smile, small and worn but happy. And Geralt knocks shoulders with Jaskier as he goes to begin packing up, only Jaskier stops him to sling an arm around him, a makeshift hug with Jaskier’s lute uncomfortably shoved in between them, but Geralt doesn’t even complain. “I missed you,” Jaskier mumbles, and Geralt stills.

“I,” he says, clears his throat. “I’m very glad you’re here, Jaskier.”

Which, coming from Geralt, is a huge and amazing statement, and Jaskier feels lighter than he has in years and decades, as they then part. As Geralt then starts packing up his and Fiona’s things, and Fiona talks excitedly with Yennefer, who listens and smiles at Fiona with the softest expression Jaskier has ever seen on her cold, beautiful face. And it’s a morning, a _ hopeful _ dawn despite it all, and _ finally _ a set of lyrics come to Jaskier’s mind. The words he’d been missing, the will, the love and the _ passion, _ and he smiles as he dumps his bag on the ground and hefts the lute in his arms.


End file.
